The Most Dangerous Mane

by Luz

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Crossover
Length: 18209

Rainhoof gets trapped in Lost-Hooves island, and is forced to play a hunting game with General Red.

*This is re-make of the story ''The Most Dangerous Game'', into a more ''ponified version''—- Rainhoof, a energetic earth pony, is trapped in a mysterious island called 'Lost-Hooves', and he is welcomed by a greedy pony and is forced to play the mischievous game of General Red, a vicious hunter with the objective of assassinating ponies for fun. Will Rainhoof get out of Lost-Hooves island, or die in the try? Who knows…

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-03-11 11:46:28 UTC

Chapter 1: The Fall

Chapter 1

The Fall

''Off there to the right--somewhere--is a large island,'' said Shade. ''It’s rather a mystery--''

''What island is it?'' Rainhoof asked.

''The old charts call it Lost-Hooves Island,''Shade replied. ''A suggestive name, isn’t it? Sailor ponies have a curious dread of this place. I don’t know why. Some superstition--''

''Can’t see it,'' remarked Rainhoof, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the boat.

''You’ve good eyes,'' said Shade, with a laugh, ''and I’ve seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can’t see four miles or so through a moonless Equestrian night.''

''Nor four yards,'' admitted Rainhoof. ''Ugh! It’s like moist black velvet.''

''It will be light in Yanhooyer,'' promised Shade

''We should make it in a few days. I hope the guns have come from a good manufacturer. We should have some good hunting up in the mountains. Great sport, hunting.''

''The best sport in whole Equestria!'' exclaimed Rainhoof.

''For the hunter,’’ amended Shade. ''Not for the game.''

''Don’t talk rot, Shade,'' said Rainhoof. ''You’re a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how the animals feel?''

‘’Perhaps the jaguar does,’’ observed Shade.

‘’Bah! They’ve no understanding.’’

‘’Even so, I rather think they understand one thing—fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death.’’

‘’Nonsense,’’ laughed Rainhoof. ‘’This hot weather is making you soft, Shade. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes—the hunters and the huntees. Luckily you and I are the hunters. Do you think we’ve passed that island yet?’’

‘’I can’t tell in the dark. I hope so.’’

‘’Damn, Rainhoof, I wish we had some magic or some wings so we can at least take a glance of this.’’Said Shade

‘’Why?’’ asked Rainhoof.

‘’About what, the magic or the island?’’

‘’The island of coarse!”

‘’The place has a reputation—a really bad one.’’

‘’Cannibals?’’ suggested Rainhoof

‘’Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn’t live in such a Celestiaforsaken place. But it’s gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn’t you notice that the crew’s nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?’’

‘’They were a bit strange, now that you mention it. Even Captain Ironhoof--‘’

‘’Yes, even that tough – minded old Ironhoof, who’d go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was:

‘’This place has an evil name among seafaring ponies, sir’. Then he said to me, very gravely: ‘Don’t you feel anything?’—as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn’t laugh when I tell you this—I did feel something like a sudden chill through my body.

‘’There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plat-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a…a mental chill, a sort of sudden dread.’’

‘’Pure imagination,’’ said Rainhoof. ‘’One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship’s company with his fear.’’

‘’Maybe.  But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them that they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing—with wavelengths, just a sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil.

Anyhoo, I’m glad we’re getting out of this zone. Well, I think I’ll turn in now, Rainhoof.’’

‘’I’m not sleepy,’’ said Rainhoof. ‘’I’m going to smoke another pipe on the afterdeck.’’

‘’Goodnight, then, Rainhoof. See you at breakfast.’’ ‘’Right. Good night, Shade.’’

_______________

There was no sound in the night as Rainhoof sat there but the muffled throb of the small electric propeller that drove the boat swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.

Rainhoof, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him.   ''It’s so dark,’’ he thought, ‘’that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids--''

An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times.

Rainhoof sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a blanket. He leapt upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his pipe, striking a rope, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short hoarse cry came from his lips as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off as the blood-warm ocean waters of Yanhooyer closed over his head.

He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding boat slapped him in the face and the salt water in his open mouth mad him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the boat, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by somepony aboard the boat, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the boat raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the boat became faint and ever – vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.

Rainhoof remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with a slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possible a hundred more and then— Rainhoof heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror.

Chapter 2: The Island

Chapter 2

The Island

Rainhoof did not recognized the animal that made that horrible sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

‘’Pistol shot,’’ muttered Rainhoof, swimming on.

Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his floppy ears—the most welcoming he had ever heard—the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut into the opaqueness. He forced himself upward, hoof over hoof. Gasping, his hooves raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs.

What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Rainhoof just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his fierce enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.

When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun, it told him in a mental way, that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. He looked about him, almost cheerfully.

‘’Where there are pistol shots, there are definitely ponies somewhere, and where there are ponies, there is food,’’ he thought. But what kind of ponies, he wondered, in so forbidding place? An unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringed the shore. He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit of weeds and trees; it was easier to go along the shore, and Rainhoof floundered along by the water. Not far from he had landed, he stopped.

Some wounded thing, by the evidence a large animal, had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson. A small, glittering object not far away caught Rainhoof’s eye and he picked it up. It was a empty cartridge.

‘’A twenty- two,’’ he remarked. ‘’That’s odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It’s clear that the brute put up a fight. I suppose the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it.’’

He examined the ground closely and found what he hoped to find… the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, now slipping on a rotten log or a loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.  Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when Rainhoof sighted the lights. He came upon them as he turned a crook in the coastline, and his first thought was that he had came upon a village, for there were many lights. But as he forged along, he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building—a lofty structure with pointed towers plunging upward the gloom. His greenish eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial country house; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea licked greedy lips in the shadows.

‘’Mirage,’’ thought Rainhoof. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leaning gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet about it all hung an air of unreality. He lifted the knocker, and it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never been used. He let it fall. And it startled him with a booming loudness. He thought he heard steps within; the door remained closed. Again Rainhoof lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. The door opened as suddenly as if it were on a spring, and Rainhoof stood blinking in the river of glaring gold light poured out.

The first thing Rainhoof’s eyes discerned was the largest stallion Rainhoof had ever seen…a gigantic creature, solidly made and black-bearded to the waist. In his hoof the stallion held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Rainhoof’s head.

Chapter 3: The Old Hunter and the New Prey

Continuation-

Chapter 3

The Old Hunter and the New Prey

Out of his snarl of beard two small eyes regarded Rainhoof. ‘’Don’t be alarmed,’’ said Rainhoof, with a smile which he hoped was disarming. ‘’I’m no robber. I fell off a boat. My name is Ranger Rainhoof of Yanhooyer.’’

The menacing look in the eyes did not change. The revolver pointed as rigidly as if the giant were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Rainhoof’s words or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform, a black uniform, covering his cutie mark; it was trimmed with gray fur of dead animals.

‘’I’m Ranger Rainhoof of Yanhooyer,’’ Rainhoof began again. ‘’ I fell off a boat. I am hungry.’’

The huge stallion’s only answer was to raise his other front hoof to the hammer of his revolver. Then Rainhoof saw the stallion’s hoof go to his forehead in a military salute, and he saw him click his hind legs together and stand at attention. Another pony was trotting down the broad marble steps, an erect, slender stallion in evening clothes. He advanced to Rainhoof and held out his hoof.

In a cultivated voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said ‘’ It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Ranger Rainhoof, the celebrated hunter, to my home.''

Automatically Rainhoof shook the pony’s hoof.

‘’I’ve read your book about hunting snow leopards in the Crystal Mountains, you see,’’ explained the huge pony. ‘’I’m General Red’’

Rainhoof’s first impression was that the pony was singularly handsome; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality of the general’s face. He was a tall stallion past middle age, for his mane was a vivid white; but his thick eyebrows and pointed military moustache were as black as the night from which Rainhoof had come. His eyes, too, were black and very bright. He had high cheekbones, a sharp-cut nose, a spare, a dark face, a face of a pony used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. Turning to the giant in uniform, the general made a sign.

The giant put away his pistol, saluted, withdrew. ‘’Bern is an incredibly strong fellow,’’ remarked the general, ‘’but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, but, I’m afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage.’’

‘’Is he Apple Loosian?’’ guessed Rainhoof.

‘’Yes,’’ said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. ‘’So am I.

‘’Come,’’ he said,’’ we shouldn’t be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most restful spot.’’

Bern had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound. ‘’Follow Bern, if you please, Mr.Rainhoof,’’ said the general. ‘’I was about to have my dinner when you came. I’ll wait for you. You’ll find that my clothes will fit you, I think.’’

It was to a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom with a canopies bed big enough for six ponies that Rainhoof followed the silent giant. Bern laid out an evening suit, and Rainhoof, as he put it on, noticed that it came from a Manehatten tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below a rank of duke.

The dining room to which Bern conducted him was in many ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence about it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times, with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory table where two score-ponies could sit down to eat. About the hall were the mounted heads of many animals—lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Rainhoof had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, alone.

‘’You’ll have a hard cider, Mr. Rainhoof,’’ he suggested. The cider was surpassingly good; and, Rainhoof noticed, the table appointments were of the finest… the linen, the crystal the silver, the accessories.

They were eating borsht, the rich red soup with sour cream so dear to Apple Loosa palates. Half apologetically General Red said: ‘’We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. We are well off the beaten track, you know. Do you think the champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?’’

‘’Not in the least,’’ declared Rainhoof. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and affable host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of the general’s that made Rainhoof uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly.

‘’Perhaps,’’ said General Red,’’ you were surprised that I recognized your name. You see, I read all books on hunting published on Equestrian, and many other international languages. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Rainhoof, and it is the hunt.’’

‘’You have some wonderful heads here,’’ said Rainhoof as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. '‘That Cape buffalo is the largest I ever saw.’’

‘’Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster.’’

‘’Did he charge you?’’

‘’Hurled me against a tree,’’ said the general. ‘’Fractured my skull. But I got the brute.’’

‘’I’ve always thought,’’ said Rainhoof, ‘’that Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game.’’

For a moment the general did not reply; he was smiling his curious red-lipped smile. Then he said slowly:

‘’No. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous game.’’ He sipped his wine. ‘’Here in my preserve on this island,’’ he said in the slow tone, ‘’I hunt more dangerous game.’’ Rainhoof expressed his surprise. ‘’Is there big game on this island?’ The general nodded

‘’The biggest.’’

‘’Really’’

‘’Oh, it isn’t naturally, of course. I have to stock the island.’’

‘’What have you imported, general?’’ Rainhoof asked. ‘’Tigers?’’

The general smiled. ‘’No,’’ he said. ‘’hunting tigers ceased to interest me years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, you see. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for dander, Mr. Rainhoof.’’

The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense.

‘’We will have some capital hunting, you and I,’’ said the general. ‘’I shall be most glad to have your society.’’

‘’But what game—‘’ began Rainhoof

‘’I’ll tell you,’’ said the general. ‘’You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of ‘cider’, Mr. Rainhoof. ?’’

‘’Thank you, general.’’

The general filled both glasses and said: ‘’ Celestia makes some ponies poets. Some She makes kinds, some beggars. She made me a hunter. My hoof was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man, with a quarter of million acres in the Unicorn Range, although he wasn’t a unicorn, he was a great business stallion. When I was a little colt, he gave me a little gun, specially made in Manehatten for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it, he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Everfree Forest when I was ten. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army—it was expected of the noblepony’s sons—and for a time commanded a division of specialized guards, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed.’’ The general puffed at his cigarette.

‘’After the debacle in Apple Loosa, I left the town, for it was imprudent for an officer of the rank to stay there. Naturally, I continued the hunt—grizzles in the Macintosh Hills, crocodiles in the Horse Shoe Bay, manticores in the East. It was near San Palomino desert that a giant buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Everfree forest to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren’t.’’ The general sighed. ‘’They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him and a high powered rifle. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life. I have heard that in some parts of Equestria businessponies often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life.’’

‘’Yes, that’s so,’’ said Rainhoof.

The general smiled. ‘’I had no wish to go to pieces,’’ he said. ‘’I must do something. Now, mine is a analytical mind, Mr. Rainhoof. Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase.’’

‘’No doubt, General Red.’’

‘’So,’’ the general continued, ‘’ I ask myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. Rainhoof, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer.’’

‘’What was it?’’

‘’Simple this: Hunting had ceased to be what you call a sporting proposition. It had become too easy. I always get my prey. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection.’’ The general lit a fresh cigarette.

‘’No animal had a chance with me anymore. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty. The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this, it was a tragic moment for me, I can tell you.’’ Rainhoof leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

‘’It came to me as an inspiration what I must do,’’ the general went on.

‘’And that was?’’

The general smiled the quiet smile of the one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. ‘’I had to invent a new animal to hunt,’’ he said.

‘’A new animal? You’re joking,’’ said Rainhoof with confusion.

‘’Not all,’’ said the general. ‘’I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I found this island, built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes—there are jungles with a maze of trials in them, hills, swamps—‘’

‘’But the animal, General Red?’’

‘’Oh,’’ said the general, ‘’it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in whole of Equestria. No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a prey which I can match my wits.’’ Rainhoof’s bewilderment showed in his face.

‘’I wanted the ideal animal to hunt,’’ explained the general. ‘’So I said: ‘What are the attributes of an ideal prey?’ And the answer was, of course: ‘It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason.’ ‘’

‘’But no animal can reason,’’ objected Rainhoof.

‘’My dear fellow,’’ said the general, ‘’there is one that can.’’

‘’But you can’t mean—‘’ gasped Rainhoof.

‘’And why not?’’

‘’I can’t believe you are serious, General Red. This is a grisly joke.’’

‘’Why wouldn’t I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting.’’

‘’Hunting? Good Celestia, General Red, what you speak is of murder.’’ The general laughed with entire good nature. He regarded Rainhoof quizzically. ‘’I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young colt as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of pony life. Surely your experienced in the war—‘’

‘’Did not make me excuse coldblooded murder,’’ finished Rainhoof stiffly.

Laughter shook the general.’’ How extraordinarily droll you are!’’ he said. ‘’One does not expect nowadays to find a young colt of the educated class, even in Equestria, with such a naïve, and, if I may say so, it’s like finding a snuffbox in a dirty road. Ah, well, doubtless you had pure ancestors. So many Equestrians appear to had. I’ll wager you’ll forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You’ve a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr.Rainhoof.’’

‘’Thank you, I’m a hunter, not a murderer.’’

‘’Dear me,’’ said the general, quite calm, ‘’again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill-founded.’’

‘’Yes?’’

‘’Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and if needed be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of this country—sailors from tramp ships—more sailors, intruders, and robbers.

‘’But they are all ponies,’’ said Rainhoof hotly.

‘’Precisely,’’ said the general. ‘’That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous.’’

‘’But where do you get them?’’

The general’s left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. ‘’This island is called Lost-Hooves,’’ he answered. ‘’sometimes

an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Come to the window with me’’

Rainhoof went to the window and looked out toward the sea.

‘’Watch! Out there!’’ exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Rainhoof’s eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Rainhoof saw the flash of the lights.

The general chuckled. ‘’They indicate a channel,’’ he said, ‘’where there’s none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster with wide-open jaws. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut.’’ He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his hoof grinding down on it. ‘’Oh, yes,’’ he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, ‘’I have electricity. We try to be civilized here.’’

‘’Civilized? And you shoot down ponies?!?’’

A trace of anger was in the general’s black eyes, but it was there for but a second, and he said, in his most pleasant manner: ‘’Dear me, what a righteous colt you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest, that would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow.’’

‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’We’ll visit my training school,’’ smiled the general. ‘’It’s in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They’re from the Smokey Mountain area; they had bad luck to go on the rocks out there now. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle.’’

He raised his hand, and Bern, who served as waiter, brought pure coffee. Rainhoof, with an effort, held his tongue in check.

‘’It’s a game, you see ,’’ pursued the general blandly. ‘’I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours’ start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him’’—the general smiled—‘’he loses.’’

Chapter 4: The Devil's Game

Continuation~

Chapter 4

The Devil's Game

‘’Suppose he refuses to be hunted?’’, said Rainhoof in confusion.

‘’Oh,’’ said the general, ‘’I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn’t wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Bern. Bern once had the honor of serving as official knouter in the army, and he has his own ideas of 'business'. Invariably, Mr. Rainhoof, invariably they choose the hunt.’’

‘’And if they win?’’

The smile on the general’s face widened. ‘’To date I have not lost,’’ he said.

Then he added, hastily: ‘’I don’t wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Rainhoof. Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. One of them almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs.’’

‘’The dogs?’’

‘’This way, please. I’ll show you.’’

The general steered Rainhoof to a window. The lights from the windows sent a flickering illumination that made grotesque patterns on the courtyard below, and Rainhoof could see moving about there a dozen or so huge black shapes; as they turned toward him, their huge yellow eyes glittered gently.

‘’A rather good lot, I think,’’ observed the general. ‘’They are let out at seven every night. If anyone dares try to get into my house----or out of it---something extremely regrettable would occur to him.’’

‘’And now,’’ said the general, ‘’I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?’’

‘’I hope,’’ said Rainhoof, ‘’that you will excuse me tonight, General Red. I’m not really feeling at all well.’’

‘’Ah, indeed?’’ the general inquired solicitously. ‘’Well, I suppose that’s only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night’s sleep. Tomorrow you’ll feel like a new man, I’ll wager. Then we hunt, eh? I’ve one rather promising prospect---‘’

Rainhoof was hurrying from the room.

‘’Sorry you can’t go with me tonight, ‘’ called the general. ‘’I expect rather fair sport—a big, strong black. He looks

resourceful—Well, good night, Mr. Rainhoof; I hope you have a good night’s sleep.

The bed was good and the pajamas of the softest silk, and he was tired in every fiber of his being, but nevertheless Rainhoof could not quiet his brain with the opiate of sleep. He laid, eyes wide open. Once he thought he heard stealthy steps in the corridor outside his room. He sought to throw open the door; it would not open. He went to the window and

looked out. His room was high up in one of the towers. The light of the country house were out now, and it was dark and

silent, but there was a fragment of sallow moon. And by its wan light he could see, dimly, the courtyard; there, weaving in and out in the patter of shadow, were black, noiseless forms; the hounds heard him at the window and looked up, expectantly, with their huge, yellow eyes. Rainhoof went back to the bed and lay down. By many methods he tried to put himself to sleep. He had achieved a doze when, just as morning began to come, he heard, far off in the dense jungle, the faint report of a pistol.

General Red did not appear until luncheon. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire.  He was solicitous about the state of Rainhoof’s health.

‘’As for me,’’ said the general, ‘’I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Rainhoof. Last night I detected traces of my old complaint.’’

To Rainhoof’s questioning glance the general said: ‘’Ennui. Boredom.’’

Then, taking a second helping of pancakes, then the general explained: ‘’The hunting was not good last night. The fellow lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That’s the problems with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about the woods. It’s most annoying. Will you have another glass of water, Mr. Rainhoof?’’

‘’General,’’ said Rainhoof firmly, ‘’I wish to leave this island at once.’’

The general raised his thickets of eyebrows; he seemed hurt. ‘’But my dear fellow,’’ the general protested, ‘’you’ve only just come. You’ve had no hunting…’’

‘’I wish to go today,’’ said Rainhoof. He saw the dead black eyes of the general on him, studying him. General Red’s face suddenly brightened. He filled Rainhoof’s glass with venerable pure water from a dusty bottle.

‘’Tonight,’’ said the general,’’ we will hunt…you and I.’’

Rainhoof shook his head. ‘’No, he general,’’ he said, slamming his hoof on the table, ‘’I will not hunt.’’

The general shrugged and delicately ate a hothouse grape. ‘’As you wish, my friend,’’ he said. ‘’The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not venture to suggest that you will find my idea of sport more entertaining than Bern’s?’’ He nodded toward the corner where the giant stood.

‘’You don’t mean...’’ cried Rainhoof.

‘’My dear fellow,’’ said the general,’’ have I not told you…that I always mean what I say about—hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foepony worthy of my steel—at last.’’

The general raised his glass, but Rainhoof sat, staring at him.

‘’You will find this game worthy playing,’’ the general said enthusiastically. ‘’Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Your determination against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, eh?’’

‘’And if I win—‘’ Rainhoof began huskily.

‘’I’ll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeated if I do not find you by midnight of the third day,’’ said General Red. ‘’My sloop will place you one the mainland near 10 miles from here.’’

The general read what Rainhoof was thinking.

‘’Oh, you can trust me,’’ said the general, as he was pouring a cup of wine.

‘’I will give you my word. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here.’’

‘’I’ll agree to nothing of the kind,’’ said Rainhoof.

‘’Oh,’’ said the general, ‘’in that case—But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of good ol’ wine, unless…’’

The general sipped his wine.

Then a businesslike air animated him. ‘’Bern,’’ he said to Rainhoof, ‘’will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear leather boots; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest too that you avoid the big swamp in the southwest corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp. There’s quicksand there. One foolish fellow tried it. The regrettable part of it that another fellow followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Rainhoof. I loved him; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always sleep after lunch. You’ll hardly have time for a nap, I fear. You’ll want to start, no doubt. I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much exciting than by day, don’t you think? Mr. Rainhoof, goodbye.’’

General Red, with a deep, courtly bow, strolled from the room.

From another door came Bern. In this both front hooves he carried a brown – leather- jacket, a blue sweatband, a haversack of food, a leather sheath containing a large hunting knife; and on his mouth a cocked revolver waiting for it to be shoot…

Chapter 5: The Game Starts

Continuation~

Chapter  5

The Game Starts

Rainhoof had fought his way, through the bush for two hours. ‘’I must keep my nerve. I must keep my nerve,’’ he said through tight teeth. He had not been entirely clearheaded when the long house’s gates snapped shut behind him. His whole idea was to put distance between himself and General Red, and, to this end, he had plunged along, spurred on by the sharp rowels of something very like panic. Now he had got a grip on himself, had stopped, and was taking stock of himself and the situation. He saw that straight flight was futile; inevitably it would bring him face to face with the sea. He was in picture with a frame of water, and his operations, clearly, must take place within that frame.

‘’I’ll give him a trail to follow,’’ muttered Rainhoof, and he struck off from the harsh paths he had been following into the trackless wilderness. He executed a series of intricate loops; he doubled on his trail again and again, recalling all the lore of the fox hunt and all the dodges of the fox. Night found him hoof-weary, with hooves and face lashed by the branches, on a thickly wooded ridge. He knew it would be insane to blunder on through the dark, even if he had the strength. His need for rest was imperative and he thought: ‘’I have played the fox; now I must play the cat of the fable.’’ A big tree with a thick trunk and outspread branches was nearby, and taking care to leave not the slightest mark, he climbed up into a crotch and stretching out on one of the broad limbs, after a fashion, rested. Rest brought him new confidence and almost a feeling of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Red could not trace him there, he told himself; only the devil himself could follow that complicated trail through the jungle after dark. But, perhaps, the general was a devil---

An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake, and sleep did not visit Rainhoof, although the silence of a dead world was on the dense, huge jungle. Toward morning, when a dingy gray was varnishing the sky, the cry of some startled bird focused Rainhoof’s attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same winding way Rainhoof had come. He flattened himself down on the limb, and through a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, he watched. The thing that was approaching was a huge dark figure.

It was General Red. He made his way along with his eyes fixed in utmost concentration on the ground before him. He paused, almost beneath the tree, dropped to his knees and studied the ground. Rainhoof’s impulse was to hurl himself down, but he saw the general’s right hoof held something metallic—a small automatic pistol.

The hunter shook his head several times, as if he were puzzled. Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his black cigarettes; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up to Rainhoof’s nostrils. Rainhoof held his breath. The general’s eyes had left the ground and were traveling inch by inch up the tree. Rainhoof froze there, every muscle tensed for a spring. But the sharp eyes of the hunter stopped before they reached the limb where Rainhoof lay; a smile spread over his white face. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring in the air; then he turned his back on the tree and trotted  carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The swish of the underbrush against his hunting boots grew fainter and fainter.

Then pent-up air burst hotly from Rainhoof’s lungs. His first thought made him sick and numb. The general could follow a trail through the woods at night; he could follow an extremely difficult trail; he must have supernatural powers; only by the merest chance had the General failed to see his prey.

Rainhoof’s second thought was even more terrible. It sent a shudder of cold horror through his whole being. Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?

Rainhoof did not want to believe what his reason told him was true, but the truth was as evident as the sun that had by now pushed through the morning mists. The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day’s sport! The General was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Rainhoof knew the full meaning of terror.

‘’I will not lose my nerve. I will not.’’

He slid down from the tree and struck off again into the woods. His face was set and he forced the machinery of his mind to function. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller living one. Throwing off his sack of food, Rainhoof took his knife from the sheath, which was attached to one of his front hooves, he began to work with all his mighty energy.

The job was finished at last, and he threw himself down behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He did not have to wait long. The cat was coming again to play with the mouse.

Following the trail with the sureness of a bloodhound cam General Red. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark no matter how faint, in the moss. So intent was the tall general on his stalking that he was upon the thing Rainhoof had made before he saw it. His foot touched the protruding bough that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leapt back with the agility of an ape. But he was not quite quick enough; the dead tree, delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a glancing blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it, Rainhoof looked at the general’s flank, and he had ripped his hunter clothes, revealing a cutie mark, a  blood-filled knife and revolver cutie mark. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor he did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, with his right front hoof, and Rainhoof, with fear again gripping his heart, heard the general’s mocking laugh ring through the jungle.

‘’Rainhoof,’’ called the general, ‘’if you are within the sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you.

Not many ponies know how to make a Advanced Pony-catcher. Luckily for me, I too know that kind of trap. You are proving interesting, Mr. Rainhoof. I am going now to have my wound dressed; it’s only a slight one. But I shall be back. I

shall be back.’’

When the general, nursing his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainhoof took up his flight again. It was a desperate, hopeless flight, that carried him on for some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and he still he pressed on. The ground grew softer under his boots; the vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit him savagely. Then, as he stopped forward, his hoof sank into the ooze. He tried to wrench it back, but the muck sucked viciously at his hoof as if it were a giant leech. With a violent effort, he tore loose. He knew where he was. Death Swamp and its quicksand. His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that somepony in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so, and, he began to dig, he digged like no-ponies land was coming. The pit so, grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. With  flying hooves he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then,  wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.

He knew that his pursuer was coming; he heard the padding sound of hooves on the soft earth, and the night breeze brought him the perfume of the general’s was coming with unusual swiftness; he was not feeling his way along, hoof by hoof. Rainhoof, crouching there, could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt an impulse to cry aloud with joy, for he heard the sharp scream of pain and the pointed stakes found their mark. He leapt up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a tall stallion was standing, with an electric torch in his mouth.

‘’You’ve done well, Rainhoof,’’ the voice of the general called. ‘’Your Badland tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs.

Again you score. I think, Rainhoof, I’ll see what you can do against my whole pack. I’m going home for a rest now. Thank you for this amusing evening.’’

At day break Rainhoof, lying near the swamp, was awakened by the sound that made him know that he had new things to learn about fear. It was a distant sound, faint and wavering, but he knew it. It was the baying pack of hounds. Rainhoof knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide. He could flee. That was postponing the inevitable. For a moment he stood there, thinking, with his hoof on his head. An idea that held a wild chance came to him, and, tightening his blue sweatband and his jacket, he headed away from the swamp.

The baying of the hounds drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, even nearer. On a ridge Rainhoof climbed a tree, down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving.  Straining his eyes, he saw the lean figure of General Red; just ahead of him Rainhoof made out another figure whose wide shoulders surged through the tall jungle weeds. It was the giant Bern, and he seemed pulled forward by some unseen force. Rainhoof knew that Bern must be holding the pack in leash.

They would be on him any minute now. His mind worked frantically. He thought of a native trick he learned in Dodge City. He slid down a tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he galloped for his life. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Rainhoof knew know how an animal at bay feels.

He had not stop to get his breath. The baying of the hounds stopped abruptly, and Rainhoof’s heart stopped too. They must have reached the knife.

He shinnied excitedly up a tree and looked back. His pursuers had stopped. But the hope that was in Rainhoof’s brain he climbed died, for he saw in the shallow valley that General Red was still on his hooves. But Bern was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.

‘’Nerve,nerve,nerve!’’ he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the tress dead ahead. Even nearer drew the hounds. Rainhoof forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the country house. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainhoof hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leapt far out into the sea…

When the general and his pack reached the place by the sea, the Apple Loosian stopped. For some minutes he stood regarding the blue-green expanse of water. He shrugged his shoulders. Then she sat down, took a drink of wine from a silver flask, lit a perfumed cigarette, and hummed a song.

General Red had an exceedingly good dinner in his great paneled dining hall that evening. With it he had a bottle of Pol Roger and half a bottle of Cahmbertin. Two slight annoyance kept him from perfect enjoyment. Once he was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Bern; the other was that his prey had escaped him; of course the Yanhooyian hadn’t played the game---so thought the general as he tasted his after-dinner wine. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was deliciously tired, he said to himself as he locked himself in. There was a little moonlight, so before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hound, and he called: ‘’Better luck another time,’’ to them. Then he switched on the light.

A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.

‘’Rainhoof!’’ screamed the general. ‘’How in Celestia’s name did you get here?’’

‘’Swam,’’ said Rainhoof. ‘’I found it quicker than walking through the jungle.’’

The general sucked in his breath and smiled.

‘’I congratulate you,’’ he said. ‘’You have won the game.’’

Rainhoof did not smile. ‘’I am still a beast at bay,’’ he said, in a low, hoarse voice. ‘’Get ready, General Red.’’

The general made one of his deepest bows. ‘’I see,’’ he said. ‘’Splendid! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Rainhoof…..’’

He had never slept in a better bed, Rainhoof decided.

The End

Extra Chapter: Ghetto Version (complete)

Chapter 1

Da Fall

''Off there ta tha right--somewhere--is a big-ass island,'' holla'd Shade. ''It’s rather a mystery--''

''What tha fuck izland is it?'' Rainhoof axed.

''Da oldschool charts call it Lost-Hooves Island,''Shade replied. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ''A suggestizzle name, aint it, biatch? Sailor ponies gots a cold-ass lil curious dread of dis place. I don’t know why. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some supastition--''

''Can’t peep it,'' remarked Rainhoof, tryin ta peer all up in tha dank tropical night dat was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blacknizz up in upon tha boat.

''You’ve phat eyes,'' holla'd Shade, wit a laugh, ''and I’ve peeped you pick off a moose movin up in tha brown fall bush at four hundred yardz yo, but even you can’t peep four milez or so all up in a moonless Equestrian night.''

''Nor four yards,'' admitted Rainhoof. ''Ugh! It’s like moist black velvet.''

''It is ghon be light up in Yanhooyer,'' promised Shade

''Our thugged-out asses should make it up in a gangbangin' few days. I hope tha glocks have come from a phat manufacturer. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Our thugged-out asses should have some phat huntin up in tha mountains. Great sport, hunting.''

''Da dopest shiznit up in whole Equestria!'' exfronted Rainhoof.

''For tha hunter,’’ amended Shade. ''Not fo' tha game.''

''Don’t rap rot, Shade,'' holla'd Rainhoof. ''You’re a funky-ass big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dum diddy-dum, here I come biaaatch! Who tha fuck cares how tha fuck tha muthafuckas feel?''

‘’Perhaps tha jaguar do,’’ observed Shade.

‘’Bah! They’ve no understanding.’’

‘’Even so, I rather be thinkin they understand one thing-fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da fear of pain n' tha fear of dirtnap.’’

‘’Nonsense,’’ laughed Rainhoof. ‘’This bangin' weather is makin you soft, Shade. Be a realist. Da ghetto is made up of two classes-the huntas n' tha huntees. Luckily you n' I is tha hunters. Do you be thinkin we’ve passed dat island yet?’’

‘’I can’t tell up in tha dark. I hope so.’’

‘’Damn, Rainhoof, I wish our crazy asses had some magic or some wings so we can at least take a glizzle of this.’’Said Shade

‘’Why?’’ axed Rainhoof.

‘’Bout what, tha magic or tha island?’’

‘’Da island of coarse!"

‘’Da place has a reputation-a straight-up bad one.’’

‘’Cannibals?’’ suggested Rainhoof

‘’Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn’t live up in such a Celestiaforsaken place. But it’s gotten tha fuck into sailor lore, somehow. Didn’t you notice dat tha crew’s nerves seemed a funky-ass bit jumpy todizzle?’’

‘’They was a funky-ass bit strange, now dat you mention dat shit. Even Captain Ironhoof--‘’

‘’Yes, even dat tough - minded oldschool Ironhoof, who’d go up ta tha devil his dirty ass n' ask his ass fo' a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before fo' realz. All I could git outta his ass was:

‘’This place has a evil name among seafarin ponies, sir’. Then da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta me, straight-up gravely: ‘Don’t you feel anything?’-as if tha air bout our asses was muthafuckin poisonous. Now, you mustn’t laugh when I rap  this-I did feel somethang like a sudden chill all up in mah body.

‘’There was no breeze. Da sea was as flat as a plat-glass window. Our thugged-out asses was drawin near tha island then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. What I felt was a…a menstrual chill, a sort of sudden dread.’’

‘’Pure imagination,’’ holla'd Rainhoof. ‘’One supastitious sailor can taint tha whole ship’s company wit his wild lil' fear.’’

‘’Maybe.  But sometimes I be thinkin sailors have a extra sense dat  drops some lyrics ta dem dat they is up in danger. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sometimes I be thinkin evil be a tangible thing-with wavelengths, just a sound n' light have fo' realz. An evil place can, so ta speak, broadcast vibrationz of evil.

Anyhoo, I’m glad we’re gettin outta dis unit. Well, I be thinkin I’ll turn up in now, Rainhoof.’’

‘’I’m not chilly,’’ holla'd Rainhoof. ‘’I’m goin ta smoke another pipe on tha afterdeck.’’

‘’Goodnight, then, Rainhoof. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. See you at breakfast.’’ ‘’Right. Dope night, Shade.’’

_______________

There was no sound up in tha night as Rainhoof sat there but tha muffled throb of tha lil' small-ass electric propella dat drove tha boat swiftly all up in tha darkness, n' tha swish n' ripple of tha wash of tha propeller.

Rainhoof, reclinin up in a screwer chair, indolently puffed on his wild lil' straight-up brier. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da sensuous drowsinizz of tha night was on his muthafuckin ass.   ''It’s so dark,’’ tha pimpin' muthafucka thought, ‘’that I could chill without closin mah eyes; tha night would be mah eyelids--''

An abrupt sound startled his muthafuckin ass. Off ta tha right dat schmoooove muthafucka heard it, n' his wild lil' fuckin ears, expert up in such matters, could not be mistaken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Again dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha sound, n' again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

Somewhere, off up in tha blackness, one of mah thugs had fired a glock three times.

Rainhoof sprang up n' moved quickly ta tha rail, mystified. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude strained his wild lil' fuckin eyes up in tha direction from which tha reports had come yo, but it was like tryin ta peep all up in a funky-ass blanket yo. Dude leapt upon tha rail n' balanced his dirty ass there, ta git pimped outer elevation; his thugged-out lil' pipe, strikin a rope, was knocked from his crazy-ass grill yo. Dude lunged fo' it; a short hoarse cry came from his fuckin lips as he realized dat schmoooove muthafucka had reached too far n' had lost his balance. Da cry was pinched off as tha blood-warm ocean wataz of Yanhooyer closed over his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!

Dude struggled up ta tha surface n' tried ta cry up yo, but tha wash from tha speedin boat slapped his ass up in tha grill n' tha salt gin n juice up in his open grill mad his ass gag n' strangle. Desperately da perved-out muthafucka struck up wit phat strokes afta tha recedin lightz of tha boat yo, but da perved-out muthafucka stopped before dat schmoooove muthafucka had swum fifty feet fo' realz. A certain defheadnizz had come ta him; it was not tha straight-up original gangsta time dat schmoooove muthafucka had been up in a tight place. There was a cold-ass lil chizzle dat his cries could be heard by somepony aboard tha boat yo, but dat chizzle was slender n' grew mo' slender as tha boat raced on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude wrestled his dirty ass outta his threadz n' shouted wit all his thugged-out lil' power. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da lightz of tha boat became faint n' eva - vanishin fireflies; then they was blotted up entirely by tha night.

Rainhoof remembered tha shots. They had come from tha right, n' doggedly da perved-out muthafucka swam up in dat direction, swimmin wit a slow, deliberate strokes, conservin his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought tha sea yo. Dude fuckin started ta count his strokes; his schmoooove ass could do possible a hundred mo' n' then- Rainhoof heard a sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It came outta tha darkness, a high beatboxin sound, tha sound of a animal up in a extremitizzle of anguish n' terror.

Chapter 2

Da Island

Rainhoof did not recognized tha animal dat made dat wack sound; da ruffneck did not try to; wit fresh vitalitizzle da perved-out muthafucka swam toward tha sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

‘’Pistol shot,’’ muttered Rainhoof, swimmin on.

Ten minutez of determined effort brought another sound ta his wild lil' floppy ears-da most thugged-out welcomin dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva heard-the mutterin n' growlin of tha sea breakin on a rocky shore yo. Dude was almost on tha rocks before da perved-out muthafucka saw them; on a night less calm da thug would done been shattered against em.

With his bangin remainin strength da ruffneck dragged his dirty ass from tha swirlin waters. Jagged crags rocked up ta jut tha fuck into tha opaquenizz yo. Dude forced his dirty ass upward, hoof over hoof. Gasping, his hooves raw, he reached a gangbangin' flat place all up in tha top. Dense jungle came down ta tha straight-up edge of tha cliffs.

What perils dat tangle of trees n' underbrush might hold fo' his ass did not concern Rainhoof just then. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. All he knew was dat da thug was safe from his wild lil' fierce enemy, tha sea, n' dat utter wearinizz was on his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude flung his dirty ass down all up in tha jungle edge n' tumbled headlong tha fuck into tha deepest chill of his fuckin life.

When he opened his wild lil' fuckin eyes he knew from tha posizzle of tha sun, it holla'd at his ass up in a menstrual way, dat it was late up in tha afternoon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sleep had given his ass freshly smoked up vigor; a sharp hunger was pickin at his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude looked bout him, almost cheerfully.

‘’Where there is pistol shots, there is definitely ponies somewhere, n' where there is ponies, there is chicken,’’ tha pimpin' muthafucka thought. But what tha fuck kind of ponies, da thug wondered, up in so forbiddin place, biatch? An unbroken front of snarled n' ragged jungle fringed tha shore yo. Dude saw no sign of a trail all up in tha closely knit of weedz n' trees; it was easier ta go along tha shore, n' Rainhoof floundered along by tha water. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Not far from dat schmoooove muthafucka had landed, da perved-out muthafucka stopped.

Some wounded thing, by tha evidence a big-ass animal, had thrashed bout up in tha underbrush; tha jungle weedz was crushed down n' tha moss was lacerated; one patch of weedz was stained crimson. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A small, glitterin object not far away caught Rainhoof’s eye n' he picked it up. It was a empty cartridge.

‘’A twenty- two,’’ he remarked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’That’s odd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It must done been a gangbangin' fairly big-ass animal too. Da hunter had his nerve wit his ass ta tackle it wit a light gun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It’s clear dat tha brute put up a gangbangin' fight. I suppose tha straight-up original gangsta three shots I heard was when tha hunter flushed his quarry n' wounded dat shit. Da last blasted was when tha pimpin' muthafucka trailed it here n' finished dat shit.’’

Dude examined tha ground closely n' found what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka hoped ta find… tha print of huntin boots. They pointed along tha cliff up in tha direction dat schmoooove muthafucka had been going. Eagerly dat schmoooove muthafucka hurried along, now slippin on a rotten log or a loose stone yo, but makin headway; night was beginnin ta settle down on tha island. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!  Bleak darknizz was blackin up tha sea n' jungle when Rainhoof sighted tha lights yo. Dude came upon dem as tha pimpin' muthafucka turned a cold-ass lil crook up in tha coastline, n' his wild lil' first thought was dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had came upon a hood, fo' there was nuff lights. But as he forged along, da perved-out muthafucka saw ta his wild lil' freakadelic pimped out astonishment dat all tha lights was up in one enormous building-a lofty structure wit pointed towers plungin upward tha gloom yo. His greenish eyes made up tha shadowy outlinez of a palatial ghetto house; it was set on a high bluff, n' on three sidez of it cliffs dived down ta where tha sea licked greedy lips up in tha shadows.

‘’Mirage,’’ thought Rainhoof. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened tha tall spiked iron gate. Da stone steps was real enough; tha massive door wit a leanin gargoyle fo' a knocker was real enough; yet bout it all hung a air of unrealitizzle yo. Dude lifted tha knocker, n' it creaked up stiffly, as if it had never been used. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude let it fall fo' realz. And it startled his ass wit a funky-ass boomin loudnizz yo. Dude thought dat schmoooove muthafucka heard steps within; tha door remained closed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Again Rainhoof lifted tha heavy knocker n' let it fall. Da door opened as suddenly as if it was on a spring, n' Rainhoof stood blinkin up in tha river of glarin gold light poured out.

Da first thang Rainhoof’s eyes discerned was tha phattest stallion Rainhoof had eva seen…a gigantic creature, solidly made n' black-bearded ta tha waist. In his hoof tha stallion held a long-barreled revolver, n' da thug was pointin it straight at Rainhoof’s head.

Chapter 3

Da Oldskool Hunter n' tha New Prey

Out of his snarl of beard two lil' small-ass eyes regarded Rainhoof. ‘’Don’t be alarmed,’’ holla'd Rainhoof, wit a smile which dat schmoooove muthafucka hoped was disarming. ‘’I’m no robber. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I fell off a funky-ass boat. I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' hoes call me Ranger Rainhoof of Yanhooyer.’’

Da menacin look up in tha eyes did not chizzle. Da revolver pointed as rigidly as if tha giant was a statue yo. Dude gave no sign dat he understood Rainhoof’s lyrics or dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had even heard em yo. Dude was dressed up in uniform, a funky-ass black uniform, coverin his cutie mark; it was trimmed wit gray fur of dead muthafuckas.

‘’I’m Ranger Rainhoof of Yanhooyer,’’ Rainhoof fuckin started again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. ‘’ I fell off a funky-ass boat. I be hungry.’’

Da big-ass stallion’s only answer was ta raise his other front hoof ta tha hammer of his bangin revolver. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Then Rainhoof saw tha stallion’s hoof git all up in his wild lil' forehead up in a military salute, n' da perved-out muthafucka saw his ass click his hind hairy-ass legs together n' stand at attention. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Another pony was trottin down tha broad marble steps, a erect, slender stallion up in evenin threadz yo. Dude advanced ta Rainhoof n' held up his hoof.

In a cold-ass lil cultivated voice marked by a slight accent dat gave it added precision n' deliberateness, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ‘’ It be a straight-up pimped out pleasure n' honor ta welcome Mista Muthafuckin Ranger Rainhoof, tha bigged up hunter, ta mah home.''

Automatically Rainhoof shook tha pony’s hoof.

‘’I’ve read yo' book bout huntin snow leopardz up in tha Crystal Mountains, you see,’’ explained tha big-ass pony. ‘’I’m General Red’’

Rainhoof’s first impression was dat tha pony was singularly handsome; his second was dat there was a original, almost bizarre qualitizzle of tha general’s grill yo. Dude was a tall stallion past middle age, fo' his crazy-ass mane was a vivid white; but his cold-ass thick eyebrows n' pointed military moustache was as black as tha night from which Rainhoof had come yo.

His eyes, too, was black n' straight-up bright yo. Dude had high cheekbones, a sharp-cut nose, a spare, a thugged-out dark face, a gangbangin' grill of a pony used ta givin orders, tha grill of a aristocrat. Turnin ta tha giant up in uniform, tha general done cooked up a sign.

Da giant put away his thugged-out lil' pistol, saluted, withdrew. ‘’Bern be a incredibly phat fellow,’’ remarked tha general, ‘’but dat schmoooove muthafucka has tha misfortune ta be deaf n' dumb fo' realz. A simple fellow yo, but, I’m afraid, like all his bangin race, a funky-ass bit of a savage.’’

‘’Is he Applez Loosian?’’ guessed Rainhoof.

‘’Yes,’’ holla'd tha general, n' his smile flossed red lips n' pointed teeth. ‘’So be I.

‘’Come,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd,’’ we shouldn’t be chattin here. Our thugged-out asses can rap later. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Now you want clothes, chicken, rest. Yo ass shall have em. This be a most restful spot.’’

Bern had rerocked up, n' tha general was rappin ta his ass wit lips dat moved but gave forth no sound. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’Big up Bern, if you please, Mista MuthafuckinRainhoof,’’ holla'd tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’I was bout ta have mah dinner when you came. I’ll wait fo' yo thugged-out ass. You’ll find dat mah threadz will fit you, I think.’’

It was ta a huge, beam-ceilinged bedroom wit a cold-ass lil canopies bed big-ass enough fo' six ponies dat Rainhoof followed tha silent giant. Bern laid up a evenin suit, n' Rainhoof, as he put it on, noticed dat it came from a Manehatten tailor whoz ass ordinarily cut n' sewed fo' none below a rank of duke.

Da dinin room ta which Bern conducted his ass was up in nuff ways remarkable. There was a medieval magnificence bout it; it suggested a funky-ass baronial hall of feudal times, wit its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory table where two score-ponies could sit down ta smoke fo' realz. Bout tha hall was tha mounted headz of nuff muthafuckas-lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or mo' slick specimens Rainhoof had never seen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At tha pimped out table tha general was chillin, ridin' solo.

‘’You’ll gots a hard cider, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof,’’ da perved-out muthafucka suggested. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time. Da cider was surpassingly good; and, Rainhoof noticed, tha table appointments waz of tha finest… tha linen, tha crystal tha silver, tha accessories.

They was smokin borsht, tha rich red soup wit sour cream so dear ta Applez Loosa palates yo. Half apologetically General Red holla'd: ‘’Our thugged-out asses do our dopest ta preserve tha amenitizzlez of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses. Our thugged-out asses is well off tha beaten track, you know, nahmeean, biatch? Do you be thinkin tha champagne has suffered from its long ocean trip?’’

‘’Not up in tha least,’’ declared Rainhoof yo. Dude was findin tha general a most thoughtful n' affable host, a legit cosmopolite. But there was one lil' small-ass trait of tha general’s dat made Rainhoof uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up his thugged-out lil' plate he found tha general studyin him, appraisin his ass narrowly.

‘’Perhaps,’’ holla'd General Red,’’ you was surprised dat I recognized yo' name. Yo ass see, I read all books on huntin published on Equestrian, n' nuff other internationistic languages. I have but one boner up in mah life, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof, n' it is tha hunt.’’

‘’Yo ass have some straight-up dope headz here,’’ holla'd Rainhoof as he ate a particularly well-cooked filet mignon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. '‘That Cape buffalo is tha phattest I eva saw.’’

‘’Oh, dat fellow. Yes, da thug was a monster.’’

‘’Did his schmoooove ass charge yo slick ass?’’

‘’Hurled mah crazy ass against a tree,’’ holla'd tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’Fractured mah skull. But I gots tha brute.’’

‘’I’ve always thought,’’ holla'd Rainhoof, ‘’that Cape buffalo is da most thugged-out fucked up of all big-ass game.’’

For a moment tha general did not reply; da thug was smilin his curious red-lipped smile. Then da perved-out muthafucka holla'd slowly:

‘’No. Yo ass is wrong, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da Cape buffalo aint da most thugged-out fucked up game.’’ Dude sipped his wine. ‘’Here up in mah preserve on dis island,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd up in tha slow tone, ‘’I hunt mo' fucked up game.’’ Rainhoof expressed his surprise. ‘’Is there big-ass game on dis island?’ Da general nodded

‘’Da freshest.’’

‘’Straight-Up’’

‘’Oh, it aint naturally, of course. I have ta stock tha island.’’

‘’What have you imported, general?’’ Rainhoof axed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’Tigers?’’

Da general smiled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’No,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’huntin tigers ceased ta interest me muthafuckin years ago. I exhausted they possibilities, you see. No thrill left up in tigers, no real danger. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I live fo' dander, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof.’’

Da general took from his thugged-out lil' pocket a gold blunt case n' offered his wild lil' freakadelic hommie a long-ass black blunt wit a silver tip; it was perfumed n' gave off a smell like incense.

‘’Our thugged-out asses will have some capital hunting, you n' I,’’ holla'd tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’I shall be most glad ta have yo' society.’’

‘’But what tha fuck game-‘’ fuckin started Rainhoof

‘’I’ll rap ,’’ holla'd tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’Yo ass is ghon be amused, I know, nahmeean, biatch? I be thinkin I may say, up in all modesty, dat I have done a rare thing. I have invented a freshly smoked up sensation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. May I pour you another glass of ‘cider’, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof. ?’’

‘’Nuff props, general.’’

Da general filled both glasses n' holla'd: ‘’ Celestia cook up some fuckin ponies poets. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some Biatch make kinds, some beggars. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch made me a hunter. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah hoof was made fo' tha trigger, mah daddy holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude was a straight-up rich man, wit a quarter of mazillion acres up in tha Unicorn Range, although da thug wasn’t a unicorn, da thug was a pimped out bidnizz stallion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When I was a lil colt, he gave me a lil gun, specially made up in Manehatten fo' me, ta blast sparrows with. When I blasted a shitload of his thugged-out lil' prize turkeys wit it, da ruffneck did not punish me; his schmoooove ass complimented mah crazy ass on mah marksmanship. I capped mah first bear up in tha Everfree Forest when I was ten. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah whole thuglife has been one prolonged hunt. I went tha fuck into tha army-it was expected of tha noblepony’s sons-and fo' a time commanded a thugged-out division of specialized guardz yo, but mah real interest was always tha hunt. I have hunted every last muthafuckin kind of game up in every last muthafuckin land. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! It would be impossible fo' me ta rap  how tha fuck nuff muthafuckas I have capped.’’ Da general puffed at his blunt.

‘’After tha debacle up in Applez Loosa, I left tha town, fo' it was imprudent fo' a officer of tha rank ta stay there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Naturally, I continued tha hunt-grizzlez up in tha Macintosh Hills, crocodilez up in tha Horse Shoe Bizzle, manticores up in tha Eastside. It was near San Palomino desert dat a giant buffalo hit me n' laid mah crazy ass up fo' six months fo' realz. As soon as I recovered I started fo' tha Everfree forest ta hunt jaguars, fo' I had heard they was unusually cunning. They weren’t.’’ Da general sighed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’They was no match at all fo' a hunter wit his wits bout his ass n' a high powered rifle. I was bitterly pissed tha fuck off. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time. I was lyin up in mah tent wit a splittin headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way tha fuck into mah mind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Huntin was beginnin ta bore me biaaatch! And hunting, remember, had been mah life. I have heard dat up in some partz of Equestria bidnizzponies often git all up in pieces when they give up tha bidnizz dat has been they life.’’

‘’Yes, that’s so,’’ holla'd Rainhoof.

Da general smiled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’I had no wish ta git all up in pieces,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’I must do something. Now, mine be a analytical mind, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof. Doubtless dat is why I smoke up tha problemz of tha chase.’’

‘’No doubt, General Red.’’

‘’So,’’ tha general continued, ‘’ I ask mah dirty ass why tha hunt no longer fascinizzled mah dirty ass. Yo ass is much lil'er than I am, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof, n' aint hunted as much yo, but you like can guess tha answer.’’

‘’What was it?’’

‘’Simple this: Huntin had ceased ta be what tha fuck you call a sportin proposition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It had become too easy as fuck . I always git mah prey fo' realz. Always. There is no pimped outer bore than perfection.’’ Da general lit a gangbangin' fresh blunt.

‘’No animal had a cold-ass lil chizzle wit me anymore. That is no boast; it aint nuthin but a mathematical certainty. Da animal had not a god damn thang but his hairy-ass legs n' his crazy-ass muthafuckin instinct. Instinct is no match fo' reason. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. When I thought of this, it was a tragic moment fo' me, I can tell yo thugged-out ass.’’ Rainhoof leaned across tha table, absorbed up in what tha fuck his host was saying.

‘’It came ta me as a inspiration what tha fuck I must do,’’ tha general went on.

‘’And dat was?’’

Da general smiled tha on tha down-low smile of tha one whoz ass has faced a obstacle n' surmounted it wit success. ‘’I had ta invent a freshly smoked up animal ta hunt,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

‘’A freshly smoked up animal, biatch? You’re clownin,’’ holla'd Rainhoof wit confusion.

‘’Not all,’’ holla'd tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’I never joke bout hunting. I needed a freshly smoked up animal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. I found one. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I found dis island, built dis house, n' here I do mah hunting. Da island is slick fo' mah purposes-there is junglez wit a maze of trials up in them, hills, swamps-‘’

‘’But tha animal, General Red?’’

‘’Oh,’’ holla'd tha general, ‘’it supplies me wit da most thugged-out excitin huntin up in whole of Equestria. No other huntin compares wit it fo' a instant. Every dizzle I hunt, n' I never grow buggin up now, fo' I gots a prey which I can match mah wits.’’ Rainhoof’s bewilderment flossed up in his wild lil' face.

‘’I wanted tha ideal animal ta hunt,’’ explained tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’So I holla'd: ‘What is tha attributez of a ideal prey?’ And tha answer was, of course: ‘It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able ta reason.’ ‘’

‘’But no animal can reason,’’ objected Rainhoof.

‘’I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah dear fellow,’’ holla'd tha general, ‘’there is one dat can.’’

‘’But you can’t mean-‘’ gasped Rainhoof.

‘’And why not?’’

‘’I can’t believe yo ass is serious, General Red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This be a grisly joke.’’

‘’Why wouldn’t I not be trippin like a muthafucka, biatch? I be bustin lyricz of hunting.’’

‘’Hunting, biatch? Dope Celestia, General Red, what tha fuck you drop a rhyme iz of murder.’’ Da general laughed wit entire phat nature yo. Dude regarded Rainhoof quizzically. ‘’I refuse ta believe dat so modern n' civilized a lil' colt as you seem ta be harbors horny-ass ideas bout tha value of pony life. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Surely yo' experienced up in tha war-‘’

‘’Did not make me excuse coldblooded murder,’’ finished Rainhoof stiffly.

Laughter shook tha general.’’ How tha fuck extraordinarily droll yo ass is!’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’One do not expect nowadays ta find a lil' colt of tha educated class, even up in Equestria, wit such a naïve, and, if I may say so, it’s like findin a snuffbox up in a thugged-out dirty road. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Ah, well, doubtless you had pure ancestors. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So nuff Equestrians step tha fuck up ta had.

Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I’ll wager you’ll forget yo' notions when you go huntin wit mah dirty ass. You’ve a genuine freshly smoked up thrill up in store fo' you, Mista MuthafuckinRainhoof.’’

‘’Nuff props, I’m a hunter, not a murderer.’’

‘’Dear me,’’ holla'd tha general, like calm, ‘’again dat unpleasant word. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But I be thinkin I can sheezy you dat yo' scruplez is like ill-founded.’’

‘’Yes?’’

‘’Life is fo' tha strong, ta be lived by tha strong, n' if needed be, taken by tha strong. Da weak of tha ghetto was put here ta give tha phat pleasure. I be strong. Why should I not bust mah gift, biatch? If I wish ta hunt, why should I not, biatch? I hunt tha scum of dis ghetto-sailors from tramp ships-more sailors, intruders, n' robbers.

‘’But they is all ponies,’’ holla'd Rainhoof hotly.

‘’Precisely,’’ holla'd tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’That is why I bust em.

It gives me pleasure. They can reason, afta a gangbangin' fashion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So they is dangerous.’’

‘’But where do you git them?’’

Da general’s left eyelid fluttered down up in a wink. ‘’This island is called Lost-Hooves,’’ he answered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’sometimes

an supa pissed god of tha high seas sendz dem ta mah dirty ass. Come ta tha window wit me’’

Rainhoof went ta tha window n' looked up toward tha sea.

‘’Watch! Out there!’’ exfronted tha general, pointin tha fuck into tha night. Rainhoof’s eyes saw only blackness, n' then, as tha general pressed a funky-ass button, far up ta sea Rainhoof saw tha flash of tha lights.

Da general chuckled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’They indicate a cold-ass lil channel,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, ‘’where there’s none; giant rocks wit razor edges crouch like a sea monsta wit wide-open jaws. They can crush a shizzle as easily as I crush dis nut.’’ Dude dropped a walnut on tha hardwood floor n' brought his hoof grindin down on dat shit. ‘’Oh, yes,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, casually, as if up in answer ta a question, ‘’I have electricity. Our thugged-out asses try ta be civilized here.’’

‘’Civilized, biatch? And you blast down ponies?!?’’

A trace of anger was up in tha general’s black eyes yo, but it was there fo' but a second, n' da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, up in his crazy-ass most pleasant manner: ‘’Dear me, what tha fuck a righteous colt yo ass is biaaatch! I assure you I do not do tha thang you suggest, dat would be barbarous. I treat these visitors wit every last muthafuckin consideration. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They git nuff phat chicken n' exercise. They git tha fuck into splendid physical condition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass shall peep fo' yo ass tomorrow.’’

‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’We’ll git on over ta mah hustlin school,’’ smiled tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’It’s up in tha cellar. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I have on some thugged-out dozen pupils down there now, nahmeean, biatch? They’re from tha Smokey Mountain area; they had bad luck ta go on tha rocks up there now fo' realz. A straight-up inferior lot, I regret ta say. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Skanky specimens n' mo' accustomed ta tha deck than ta tha jungle.’’

Dude raised his hand, n' Bern, whoz ass served as waiter, brought pure coffee. Rainhoof, wit a effort, held his cold-ass tongue up in check.

‘’It’s a game, you peep ,’’ pursued tha general blandly. ‘’I suggest ta one of dem dat we go hunting. I give his ass a supply of chicken n' a pimpin huntin knife. I give his ass three hours’ start. I be ta follow, armed only wit a pistol of tha smallest caliber n' range. If mah quarry eludes me fo' three whole days, da thug wins tha game. If I find him’’-the general smiled-‘’he loses.’’

Chapter 4

Da Devilz Game

‘’Suppose he refuses ta be hunted?’’, holla'd Rainhoof up in confusion.

‘’Oh,’’ holla'd tha general, ‘’I give his ass his option, of course yo. Dude need not play dat game if da ruffneck don’t wish to. If da ruffneck do not wish ta hunt, I turn his ass over ta Bern. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Bern once had tha honor of servin as straight-up legit knouter up in tha army, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka has his own ideaz of 'business'. Invariably, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof, invariably they chizzle tha hunt.’’

‘’And if they win?’’

Da smile on tha general’s grill widened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’To date I aint lost,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd.

Then he added, hastily: ‘’I don’t wish you ta be thinkin me a funky-ass braggart, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof. Many of dem afford only da most thugged-out elementary sort of problem. One of dem almost did win. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I eventually had ta bust tha dawgs.’’

‘’Da dawgs?’’

‘’This way,. Biiiatch please.I’ll sheezy yo thugged-out ass.’’

Da general steered Rainhoof ta a window. Da lights from tha windows busted a gangbangin' flickerin illumination dat made grotesque patterns on tha courtyard below, n' Rainhoof could peep movin bout there a thugged-out dozen or so big-ass black shapes; as they turned toward him, they big-ass yellow eyes glittered gently.

‘’A rather phat lot, I think,’’ observed tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’They is let up at seven every last muthafuckin night. If mah playas dares try ta git tha fuck into mah house----or outta it---somethang mad regrettable would occur ta his muthafuckin ass.’’

‘’And now,’’ holla'd tha general, ‘’I wanna sheezy you mah freshly smoked up collection of heads. Will you come wit me ta tha library?’’

‘’I hope,’’ holla'd Rainhoof, ‘’that yo big-ass booty is ghon excuse me tonight, General Red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I’m not straight-up feelin at all well.’’

‘’Ah, indeed?’’ tha general inquired solicitously. ‘’Well, I suppose that’s only natural, afta yo' long swim. Yo ass need a good, restful night’s chill. Tomorrow you’ll feel like a freshly smoked up man, I’ll wager. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Then our crazy asses hunt, eh, biatch? I’ve one rather promisin prospect---‘’

Rainhoof was hurryin from tha room.

‘’Sorry you can’t go wit me tonight, ‘’ called tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’I expect rather fair sport-a big, phat black yo. Dude looks

resourceful-Well, phat night, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof; I hope you gots a phat night’s chill.

Da bed was phat n' tha pajamaz of tha softest silk, n' da thug was chillaxed up in every last muthafuckin fiber of his bein yo, but nevertheless Rainhoof could not on tha down-low his dome wit tha opiate of chill yo. Dude laid, eyes wide open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Once tha pimpin' muthafucka thought dat schmoooove muthafucka heard stealthy steps up in tha corridor outside his bangin room yo. Dude sought ta throw open tha door; it would not open. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude went ta tha window and

looked up yo. His room was high up in one of tha towers. Da light of tha ghetto doggy den was up now, n' it was dark and

silent yo, but there was a gangbangin' fragment of sallow moon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And by its wan light his schmoooove ass could see, dimly, tha courtyard; there, weavin up in n' up in tha patter of shadow, was black, noiseless forms; tha houndz heard his ass all up in tha window n' looked up, expectantly, wit they huge, yellow eyes. Rainhoof went back ta tha bed n' lay down. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. By nuff methodz tha pimpin' muthafucka tried ta put his dirty ass ta chill yo. Dude had achieved a thugged-out doze when, just as mornin fuckin started ta come, dat schmoooove muthafucka heard, far off up in tha dense jungle, tha faint report of a pistol.

General Red did not step tha fuck up until luncheon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude was dressed faultlessly up in tha tweedz of a cold-ass lil ghetto squire.  Dude was solicitous bout tha state of Rainhoof’s game.

‘’As fo' me,’’ holla'd tha general, ‘’I do not feel so well. I be worried, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof. Last night I detected tracez of mah oldschool complaint.’’

To Rainhoof’s dissin glizzle tha general holla'd: ‘’Ennui. Boredom.’’

Then, takin a second muthafuckin helpin of pancakes, then tha general explained: ‘’Da huntin was not phat last night. Da fellow lost his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude done cooked up a straight trail dat offered no problems at all. That’s tha problems wit these sailors; they have dull domes ta begin with, n' they do not know how tha fuck ta git bout tha woods. It’s most buggin. Will you have another glass of water, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof?’’

‘’General,’’ holla'd Rainhoof firmly, ‘’I wish ta leave dis island at once.’’

Da general raised his cold-ass thicketz of eyebrows; da perved-out muthafucka seemed hurt. ‘’But mah dear fellow,’’ tha general protested, ‘’you’ve only just come. You’ve had no hunting…’’

‘’I wish ta go todizzle,’’ holla'd Rainhoof yo. Dude saw tha dead black eyez of tha general on him, studyin his muthafuckin ass. General Red’s grill suddenly brightened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude filled Rainhoof’s glass wit venerable pure gin n juice from a thugged-out dusty forty.

‘’Tonight,’’ holla'd tha general,’’ we will hunt…you n' I.’’

Rainhoof shook his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’Fuck dat shit, he general,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, slammin his hoof on tha table, ‘’I aint gonna hunt.’’

Da general shrugged n' delicately ate a hothouse grape. ‘’As you wish, mah playa,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’Da chizzle rests entirely wit yo thugged-out ass. But may I not venture ta suggest dat yo big-ass booty is ghon find mah idea of shiznit mo' entertainin than Bern’s?’’ Dude nodded toward tha corner where tha giant stood.

‘’Yo ass don’t mean...’’ cried Rainhoof.

‘’I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah dear fellow,’’ holla'd tha general,’’ have I not holla'd at you…that I always mean what tha fuck I say about-hunting, biatch? This is straight-up a inspiration. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I drank ta a gangbangin' foepony worthy of mah steel-at last.’’

Da general raised his wild lil' freakadelic glass yo, but Rainhoof sat, starin at his muthafuckin ass.

‘’Yo ass will find dis game worthy playing,’’ tha general holla'd enthusiastically. ‘’Yo Crazy-Ass dome against mine. Yo Crazy-Ass woodcraft against mine. Yo Crazy-Ass strength n' stamina against mine. Yo Crazy-Ass determination against mine. Outdoor chess muthafucka! And tha stake aint without value, eh?’’

‘’And if I win-‘’ Rainhoof fuckin started huskily.

‘’I’ll cheerfully acknowledge mah dirty ass defeated if I do not find you by midnight of tha third day,’’ holla'd General Red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’I be a gangsta yo, but y'all knew dat n' mah sloop will place you one tha mainland near 10 milez from here.’’

Da general read what tha fuck Rainhoof was thankin.

‘’Oh, you can trust me,’’ holla'd tha general, as da thug was pourin a cold-ass lil cup of wine.

‘’I will give you mah word. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Of course you, up in turn, must smoke ta say not a god damn thang of yo' git on over ta here.’’

‘’I’ll smoke ta not a god damn thang of tha kind,’’ holla'd Rainhoof.

‘’Oh,’’ holla'd tha general, ‘’in dat case-But why say shit bout dat now, biatch? Three minutes hence we can say shit bout it over a funky-ass forty of phat ol’ wine, unless…’’

Da general sipped his wine.

Then a funky-ass bidnizzlike air animated his muthafuckin ass. ‘’Bern,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta Rainhoof, ‘’will supply you wit huntin clothes, chicken, a knife. I suggest you wear leather boots; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest too dat you avoid tha big-ass swamp up in tha southwest corner of tha island. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Our thugged-out asses call it Dirtnap Swamp. There’s quicksand there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. One foolish fellow tried dat shit. Da regrettable part of it dat another fellow followed his muthafuckin ass. Yo ass can imagine mah vibe, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof. I loved him; da thug was tha finest hound up in mah pack. Well, I must beg you ta excuse me now, nahmeean, biatch? I always chill afta lunch. You’ll hardly have time fo' a nap, I fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. You’ll wanna start, no diggity. I shall not follow till dusk yo. Huntin at night is so much excitin than by day, don’t you think, biatch? Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof, peace out.’’

General Red, wit a thugged-out deep, courtly bow, strolled from tha room.

From another door came Bern. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In dis both front hooves his schmoooove ass carried a funky-ass brown - leather- jacket, a funky-ass blue sweatband, a haversack of chicken, a leather sheath containin a big-ass huntin knife; n' on his crazy-ass grill a cold-ass lil cocked revolver waitin fo' it ta be shoot…

Chapter  5

Da Game Starts

Rainhoof had fought his way, all up in tha bush fo' two hours. ‘’I must keep mah nerve. I must keep mah nerve,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd all up in tight teeth yo. Dude had not been entirely clearheaded when tha long house’s gates snapped shut behind his muthafuckin ass yo. His whole idea was ta put distizzle between his dirty ass n' General Red, and, ta dis end, dat schmoooove muthafucka had plunged along, spurred on by tha sharp rowelz of somethang straight-up like panic. Now dat schmoooove muthafucka had gots a grip on his dirty ass, had stopped, n' was takin stock of his dirty ass n' tha situation. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude saw dat straight flight was futile; inevitably it would brang his ass grill ta grill wit tha sea yo. Dude was up in picture wit a gangbangin' frame of water, n' his operations, clearly, must take place within dat frame.

‘’I’ll give his ass a trail ta follow,’’ muttered Rainhoof, n' da perved-out muthafucka struck off from tha harsh paths dat schmoooove muthafucka had been followin tha fuck into tha trackless wildernizz yo. Dude executed a seriez of intricate loops; da ruffneck doubled on his cold-ass trail again n' again n' again n' again, recallin all tha lore of tha fox hunt n' all tha dodgez of tha fox. Night found his ass hoof-weary, wit hooves n' grill lashed by tha branches, on a thickly wooded ridge yo. Dude knew it would be crazy ta blunder on all up in tha dark, even if dat schmoooove muthafucka had tha strength yo. His need fo' rest was imperatizzle n' tha pimpin' muthafucka thought: ‘’I have played tha fox; now I must play tha pussaaaaay of tha fable.’’ A big-ass tree wit a thick trunk n' outspread branches was nearby, n' takin care ta leave not tha slightest mark, his schmoooove ass climbed up tha fuck into a cold-ass lil crotch n' stretchin up on one of tha broad limbs, afta a gangbangin' fashion, rested. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time. Rest brought his ass freshly smoked up confidence n' almost a gangbangin' feelin of security. Even so zealous a hunter as General Red could not trace his ass there, tha pimpin' muthafucka holla'd at his dirty ass; only tha devil his dirty ass could follow dat fucked up trail all up in tha jungle afta dark. But, like, tha general was a thugged-out devil---

An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake, n' chill did not git on over ta Rainhoof, although tha silence of a thugged-out dead ghetto was on tha dense, big-ass jungle. Toward morning, when a thugged-out dingy gray was varnishin tha sky, tha cry of some startled bird focused Rainhoof’s attention up in dat direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somethang was comin all up in tha bush, comin slowly, carefully, comin by tha same stupid-ass windin way Rainhoof had come yo. Dude flattened his dirty ass down on tha limb, n' all up in a screen of leaves almost as thick as tapestry, da thug watched. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da thang dat was approachin was a big-ass dark figure.

It was General Red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude made his way along wit his wild lil' fuckin eyes fixed up in utmost concentration on tha ground before his muthafuckin ass yo. Dude paused, almost beneath tha tree, dropped ta his knees n' studied tha ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Rainhoof’s impulse was ta hurl his dirty ass down yo, but da perved-out muthafucka saw tha general’s right hoof held somethang metallic-a lil' small-ass automatic pistol.

Da hunter shook his head nuff muthafuckin times, as if da thug was puzzled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Then da perved-out muthafucka straightened up n' took from his case one of his black blunts; its pungent incenselike smoke floated up ta Rainhoof’s nostrils. Rainhoof held his breath. Da general’s eyes had left tha ground n' was travelin inch by inch up tha tree. Rainhoof froze there, every last muthafuckin muscle tensed fo' a spring. But tha sharp eyez of tha hunter stopped before they reached tha limb where Rainhoof lay; a smile spread over his white face. Straight-up deliberately his thugged-out lil' punk-ass blew a smoke rang up in tha air; then tha pimpin' muthafucka turned his back on tha tree n' trotted  carelessly away, back along tha trail dat schmoooove muthafucka had come. Da swish of tha underbrush against his huntin boots grew fainter n' fainter.

Then pent-up air burst hotly from Rainhoof’s lungs yo. His first thought made his ass sick n' numb. Da general could follow a trail all up in tha woodz at night; his schmoooove ass could follow a mad hard as fuck trail; he must have supanatural powers; only by tha merest chizzle had tha General failed ta peep his thugged-out lil' prey.

Rainhoof’s second thought was even mo' terrible. It busted a shudder of cold horror all up in his whole being. Why had tha general smiled, biatch? Why had tha pimpin' muthafucka turned back?

Rainhoof did not wanna believe what tha fuck his bangin reason holla'd at his ass was true yo, but tha truth was as evident as tha sun dat had by now pushed all up in tha mornin mists. Da general was playin wit him! Da general was savin his ass fo' another day’s shiznit son! Da General was tha cat; da thug was tha mouse. Then it was dat Rainhoof knew tha full meanin of terror.

‘’I aint gonna lose mah nerve. I will not.’’

Dude slid down from tha tree n' struck off again n' again n' again tha fuck into tha woodz yo. His grill was set n' he forced tha machinery of his crazy-ass mind ta function. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Three hundred yardz from his hidin place da perved-out muthafucka stopped where a big-ass dead tree leaned precariously on a smalla livin one. Throwin off his sack of chicken, Rainhoof took his knife from tha sheath, which was attached ta one of his wild lil' front hooves, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta work wit all his crazy-ass mighty juice.

Da thang was finished at last, n' tha pimpin' muthafucka threw his dirty ass down behind a gangbangin' fallen log a hundred feet away yo. Dude did not have ta wait long. Da pussaaaaay was comin again n' again n' again ta play wit tha mouse.

Peepin tha trail wit tha surenizz of a funky-ass bloodhound cam General Red. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Nothang escaped dem searchin black eyes, no crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark no matter how tha fuck faint, up in tha moss. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So intent was tha tall general on his stalkin dat da thug was upon tha thang Rainhoof had made before da perved-out muthafucka saw it yo. His foot touched tha protrudin bough dat was tha trigger. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Even as tha pimpin' muthafucka touched it, tha general sensed his fuckin lil' dark shizzle n' leapt back wit tha agilitizzle of a ape. But da thug was not like quick enough; tha dead tree, delicately adjusted ta rest on tha cut livin one, crashed down n' struck tha general a glancin blow on tha shoulder as it fell; but fo' his thugged-out alertness, he must done been smashed beneath it, Rainhoof looked all up in tha general’s flank, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka had ripped his hunter clothes, revealin a cold-ass lil cutie mark, a  blood-filled knife n' revolver cutie mark yo. Dude staggered yo, but da ruffneck did not fall; nor da ruffneck did da ruffneck drop his bangin revolver yo. Dude stood there, rubbin his wild lil' fucked up shoulder, wit his bangin right front hoof, n' Rainhoof, wit fear again n' again n' again grippin his heart, heard tha general’s mockin laugh rang all up in tha jungle.

‘’Rainhoof,’’ called tha general, ‘’if yo ass is within tha sound of mah voice, as I suppose yo ass is, let me congratulate yo thugged-out ass.

Not nuff ponies know how tha fuck ta cook up a Advanced Pony-catcher. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Luckily fo' me, I too know dat kind of trap. Yo ass is provin interesting, Mista Muthafuckin Rainhoof. I be goin now ta have mah wound dressed; it’s only a slight one. But I shall be back. I

shall be back.’’

When tha general, nursin his bruised shoulder, had gone, Rainhoof took up his wild lil' flight again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. It was a thugged-out desperate, hopeless flight, dat carried his ass on fo' some hours. Dusk came, then darkness, n' da perved-out muthafucka still he pressed on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da ground grew softer under his boots; tha vegetation grew ranker, denser; insects bit his ass savagely. Then, as da perved-out muthafucka stopped forward, his hoof sank tha fuck into tha ooze yo. Dude tried ta wrench it back yo, but tha muck sucked viciously at his hoof as if it was a giant leech. With a violent effort, tha pimpin' muthafucka tore loose yo. Dude knew where da thug was. Dirtnap Swamp n' its quicksand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His handz was tight closed as if his nerve was somethang tangible dat somepony up in tha darknizz was tryin ta tear from his wild lil' freakadelic grip. Da softnizz of tha earth had given his ass a idea yo. Dude stepped back from tha quicksand a thugged-out dozen feet or so, and, his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta dig, da ruffneck digged like no-ponies land was coming. Da pit so, grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, his schmoooove ass climbed up n' from some hard saplings cut stakes n' sharpened dem ta a gangbangin' fine point. These stakes he planted up in tha bottom of tha pit wit tha points stickin up. With  flyin hooves da thug wove a rough carpet of weedz n' branches n' wit it his schmoooove ass covered tha grill of tha pit. Then,  wet wit sweat n' achin wit tiredness, his schmoooove ass crouched behind tha stump of a lightning-charred tree.

Dude knew dat his thugged-out lil' pursuer was coming; dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha paddin sound of hooves on tha soft earth, n' tha night breeze brought his ass tha perfume of tha general’s was comin wit unusual swiftness; da thug was not feelin his way along, hoof by hoof. Rainhoof, crouchin there, could not peep tha general, nor could da perved-out muthafucka peep tha pit yo. Dude lived a year up in a minute. Then he felt a impulse ta cry aloud wit joy, fo' dat schmoooove muthafucka heard tha sharp scream of pain n' tha pointed stakes found they mark yo. Dude leapt up from his thugged-out lil' place of concealment. Then his schmoooove ass cowered back. Three feet from tha pit a tall stallion was standing, wit a electric torch up in his crazy-ass grill.

‘’You’ve done well, Rainhoof,’’ tha voice of tha general called. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’Yo Crazy-Ass Badland tiger pit has fronted one of mah dopest dawgs.

Again you score. I think, Rainhoof, I’ll peep what tha fuck you can do against mah whole pack. I’m goin home fo' a rest now, nahmeean, biatch? Nuff props fo' dis amusin evening.’’

At dizzle break Rainhoof, lyin near tha swamp, was awakened by tha sound dat made his ass know dat dat schmoooove muthafucka had freshly smoked up thangs ta learn bout fear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. It was a thugged-out distant sound, faint n' waverin yo, but he knew dat shit. It was tha bayin ounce ta tha bounce of hounds. Rainhoof knew his schmoooove ass could do one of two things yo. Dude could stay where da thug was n' wait. That was suicizzle yo. Dude could flee. That was postponin tha inevitable. For a moment da perved-out muthafucka stood there, thankin, wit his hoof on his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! An idea dat held a wild chizzle came ta him, and, tightenin his blue sweatband n' his jacket, dat schmoooove muthafucka headed away from tha swamp.

Da bayin of tha houndz drew nearer, then still nearer, nearer, even nearer. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. On a ridge Rainhoof climbed a tree, down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, his schmoooove ass could peep tha bush moving.  Strainin his wild lil' fuckin eyes, da perved-out muthafucka saw tha lean figure of General Red; just ahead of his ass Rainhoof made up another figure whose wide shouldaz surged all up in tha tall jungle weeds. It was tha giant Bern, n' da perved-out muthafucka seemed pulled forward by some unseen force. Rainhoof knew dat Bern must be holdin tha pack up in leash.

They would be on his ass any minute now yo. His mind hit dat shizzle frantically yo. Dude thought of a natizzle trick he hustled up in Dodge Citizzle yo. Dude slid down a tree yo. Dude caught hold of a springy lil' saplin n' ta it he fastened his huntin knife, wit tha blade pointin down tha trail; wit a funky-ass bit of wild grapevine tha pimpin' muthafucka tied back tha sapling. Then he galloped fo' his fuckin life. Da houndz raised they voices as they hit tha fresh scent. Rainhoof knew know how tha fuck a animal at bay feels.

Dude had not stop ta git his breath. Da bayin of tha houndz stopped abruptly, n' Rainhoof’s ass stopped too. They must have reached tha knife.

Dude shinnied buckwildly up a tree n' looked back yo. His pursuers had stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But tha hope dat was up in Rainhoof’s dome his schmoooove ass climbed died, fo' da perved-out muthafucka saw up in tha shallow valley dat General Red was still on his hooves. But Bern was not. Da knife, driven by tha recoil of tha springin tree, had not wholly failed.

‘’Nerve,nerve,nerve!’’ he panted, as da ruffneck dashed along fo' realz. A blue gap flossed between tha tress dead ahead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Even nearer drew tha hounds. Rainhoof forced his dirty ass on toward dat gap yo. Dude reached dat shit. It was tha shore of tha sea fo' realz. Across a cold-ass lil cove his schmoooove ass could peep tha gloomy gray stone of tha ghetto house. Twenty feet below his ass tha sea rumbled n' hissed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Rainhoof hesitated. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shizzle happens all tha time yo. Dude heard tha hounds. Then he leapt far up tha fuck into tha sea…

When tha general n' his thugged-out lil' pack reached tha place by tha sea, tha Applez Loosian stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! For some minutes da perved-out muthafucka stood regardin tha blue-chronicexpanse of gin n juice yo. Dude shrugged his shoulders. Then her big-ass booty sat down, took a thugged-out drank of wine from a silver flask, lit a perfumed blunt, n' hummed a song.

General Red had a exceedingly phat dinner up in his wild lil' freakadelic pimped out paneled dinin hall dat evening. With it dat schmoooove muthafucka had a funky-ass forty of Pol Roger n' half a funky-ass forty of Cahmbertin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Two slight annoyizzle kept his ass from slick enjoyment. Once da thug was tha thought dat it would be hard as fuck ta replace Bern; tha other was dat his thugged-out lil' prey had escaped him; of course tha Yanhooyian hadn’t played tha game---so thought tha general as tha pimpin' muthafucka smoked his thugged-out after-dinner wine fo' realz. At ten da thug went up ta his bedroom yo. Dude was deliciously tired, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd ta his dirty ass as he locked his dirty ass in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was a lil moonlight, so before turnin on his fuckin light, da thug went ta tha window n' looked down all up in tha courtyard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude could peep tha pimped out hound, n' his schmoooove ass called: ‘’Better luck another time,’’ ta em. Then da perved-out muthafucka switched on tha light.

A man, whoz ass had been hidin up in tha curtainz of tha bed, was standin there.

‘’Rainhoof!’’ screamed tha general. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. ‘’How tha fuck up in Celestia’s name did you git here?’’

‘’Swam,’’ holla'd Rainhoof. ‘’I found it quicker than struttin all up in tha jungle.’’

Da general sucked up in his breath n' smiled.

‘’I congratulate you,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’Yo ass have won tha game.’’

Rainhoof did not smile. ‘’I be still a funky-ass beast at bay,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, up in a low, hoarse voice. ‘’Git ready, General Red.’’

Da general made one of his fuckin lil' deepest bows. ‘’I see,’’ da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! ‘’Splendid hommie biaaatch! One of our asses is ta furnish a repast fo' tha houndz fo' tha hounds. Da other will chill up in dis straight-up pimpin bed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! On guard, Rainhoof…..’’

Dude had never slept up in a funky-ass mo' betta bed, Rainhoof decided.

Da End